There is no flood.

There is no drop of water on my tongue.

There is no memory of a fruitful time.


Raindrops, cold and wet and spiteful, taunt me as they rage against my window.


I want to feel their life on my nakedness.

I want them to feed my sight.

I want them to awaken my unknowns.


But my window is locked, and I have no energy to turn the latch.


My mind is lost in unending existence.

My heart pumps blackened dreams.

My soul seeks fruitful times.


Parched and weak, I wish for hail to break the glass and force a flood inside.



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